Claire De Lune
by Das Lieblingsfach
Summary: One early, summer afternoon, Harry and Luna enjoyed a private waltz before going on an outing. H/L, oneshot. Takes place sometime after Hogwarts and before their respective marriages.


A/N: **It would probably be in your best interest to read this before you continue. **I say this because this story is sorta weird. In fact, the characters' identities don't really come clear until the end, but I'm hoping that most of you will be able to recognize them by their characteristics. So, this scene was actually a dream I had and for some reason, Claire De Lune was playing as background music. I decided it might make a good one-shot, so I typed it out, added on a few things, and voila, the fan fiction was born.

This story doesn't really take place at any specific time in the Harry Potter universe. I like to imagine its somewhere between their graduation from Hogwarts and when Harry got married to Ginny. They're both young, single adults at this point, around early twenties. In my mind, Luna and Harry are very close friends that regularly spend time together. You're welcome to use your own imagination to decide where they're getting ready to go. I also didn't really decide what 'house' they were in. I suppose it could be 12 Grimmauld Place, that would make the most sense after all, given its suggested to be Harry's abode. It's also up to interpretation as to what Luna was _really _trying to say. You'll see what I'm talking about.

Also, its been a while since I've read a Harry Potter book, and so my knowledge of the universes' rules and mythology is a bit hazy. I attempted not to have it play too much an influential role in this story as it is, but if you see something that's a little off, please know that I wasn't playing with a full deck. Of general Harry Potter knowledge, that is.

So yeah, that's really it. This is me indulging some of my unrequited Harry/Luna love (who else thought they were the most suited for another?) in the form of a lousy fan fic.

Oh and I _do _recommend listening to Claire De Lune while reading this. I did while I wrote it, and I think it adds a certain _je ne sais quoi. _

And I don't think I was influenced by Twilight. I know there was a somewhat similar scene in the movie (I've never been able to stomach the book) but I didn't intentionally take anything from it, as this was just the contents of a dream. Its possible the influence of the movie induced it, but it was completely subconscious, I assure you.

* * *

The loud flow of water had shut off. She heard the rings of the shower curtain scrape against the metal bar, followed by two dripping feet that proceeded to step out onto the tiled floor.

"Did you get anything while you were out?" she asked him.

"Nothing that you'd like, I don't think," was the response.

She continued to study his collection of items, the posters on the wall, the trinkets on the table, the records sitting impatiently dormant in their file.

The door to the bathroom was soon opened, followed by his fully-clothed self and a thick cloud of steam. He threw a damp towel into a nearby laundry hamper.

"May I choose something to listen to?" she requested politely, gently gracing his record collection with her fingertips.

He didn't look up as he momentarily wandered back into the bathroom. She noticed before he left that his hair was damp, dark, and a bit spiked at the ends from when he had run his hands through.

"Yeah, that's fine," he called back. "Just keep the volume down. I have sensitive neighbors."

She turned to face the record collection, this time, significantly more reluctant.

"Perhaps I shouldn't, then…"

"No, no, it's fine!" he encouraged, his voice echoing from the bathroom. "Yeah, just forget what I said. It's the middle of the day, they're probably all at work."

She gradually flipped through the stack while he returned to the living room and began fussing at his hair with a comb in front of a hallway mirror. He had no intention for it to look like he'd actually made an effort, but at the same time, he didn't want it to seem as though he'd just rolled out of bed.

She could see his struggle in her peripheral as she continued to thumb through the records, realizing shortly thereafter that she wasn't paying nearly as much attention to the task at hand as she should have been.

Eventually, the soft notes of 'Claire de Lune' filled the house from the scratchy record player. The clunky, yet graceful piano keys seemed to float and dance through the halls and rooms like a leaf on the wind. He could see the hem of her white, flower-embroidered summer dress swaying back in forth behind him in the reflection of the mirror. He shifted a bit to the left.

He noticed the soft light of the sun filtering through the lace curtains of the front window. It caught some of the yellow in her tow-white hair. When he turned around to face her back, he realized that the barrette holding her hair back was a green-rhinestone dragonfly. It looked worn and faded, and he liked to imagine it had belonged to an elderly relative.

A brief moment passed of him watching her gently sway and hum the notes while she studied the vinyl cover. It was odd to him how the small living room had gradually come to embody the song that filled it, with the rays of the sun casting a soft glow through the lace curtains, and her inexplicably calming presence in the center, slightly moving with the keys and matching the notes under her breath.

He felt compelled to approach her, to lay a hand on her blue knit cardigan covered shoulder. She didn't jump at his touch.

"Are you ready to go?" she asked, seemingly not ashamed for allowing herself to get enveloped in the music.

"Not really. I want to finish the song."

He fit his hand into hers and placed his other at her waist. She assumed the familiar crooked, dreamy smile he knew too well as she laid her remaining hand on his shoulder.

They slowly glided around the small living space, attempting to match the sporadic, hard piano keys while allowing themselves to float on the consistent grace of the melody. Neither one of them had ever been particularly adept at dancing, but it was fairly easy to pretend they might have been when they were the only two in the room.

The faded lace hem of her dress would twirl around her ankles when they would spin. He also took notice of the way the ragged ends of her snow blonde hair would encircle her whirl.

They both shared an active interest in each other's eyes. It was strange, and yet somewhat natural that he could look her straight in the eye for an extended period of time without feeling uncomfortable. It didn't seem too outlandish on her part either, but then again, he had never known her to ever feel remotely unsettled about anything.

The song ended sooner than they expected, but the notes subtly dwindled to silence rather than coming to an abrupt halt. They somewhat slipped away from each other, but their hands remained in contact, hanging pendulously between them. They stood for a brief period, still suspended in the moment.

She unexpectedly reached up and pulled his glasses away from his face by the bridge. To him, she was now a snowy blur.

"Have I ever told you your eyes remind me of _shamrocks?_"

He didn't know how to respond, so he allowed her to continue.

"They do. They also remind me of a green field in early spring, soon after the sun has returned to melt the snow and ice away."

She pushed his glasses back up to rest where they were before. He attempted to hide a blush as he readjusted them on his face.

"I've always liked them. Your eyes, I mean," she continued. "I suppose I meant to tell you that a long time ago…"

She trailed off. This wasn't completely unusual for her either, but it seemed now that she was too somber to continue her sentence rather than having been lost in a day dream.

"Why didn't you?" he pressed. "You've never hesitated to speak your mind before."

She quickly looked back at up him from where her face had slowly trailed downward.

"I suppose the right opportunity never presented itself," she said simply, a weak smile returning.

Her explanation didn't quite add up. He knew as much as she did that waiting for an opportune moment to speak her mind or make an observation didn't square with who she was. What could it have been that had prevented her from admiring his eye color all these years? It certainly wasn't _propriety _or _self-consciousness. _

He supposed the right thing to do would be to give her the benefit of the doubt and drop the subject altogether.

"I understand," he sighed, returning her grin. "It sometimes takes a certain kind of moment to really take notice of what's around you."

She nodded, but her look of relief seemed to suggest this wasn't the answer.

"Shall we go then?"

He hesitated before responding with conceding nod.

She let one of her hands fall from his, but kept the other clasped as firmly with his as it had been before. She led them out of the small house, stopping and releasing hands only to allow him to lock the door before they descended the walk.

He then slipped an arm beneath hers and they began their walk through the neighborhood arm in arm.

"Luna, you know you're fascinating, don't you?"

She glanced at him. "You think so?"

He nodded and beamed.

"I'm glad you think so, Harry."


End file.
